But who do I apoligize to.
When you see my growth as treason, staining the memories you have kept of me.
Do I say I’m sorry, do I try to convince you I’m still me?

Or do I apoligize to the girl I burried, outgrown and outdated, hidden somewhere in the early years of  my existance. I think she would forgive me, she understood my metamorphosis, at one time she was the one wishing for it. 

All my apologies would be in vain, said through gritted teeth. I’m not sorry for burning the cities I had once created, for the ash I pulled myself from was more healing then any accepted apology. 

Validated by your dissipointment, I remind myself of all i’ve became. 
There is no need for me to say sorry.